No Freshman Need Apply
by fromstars
Summary: Joan Watson is nineteen years old and in desperate need of a place to live during her Sophomore year of college. Sherlock Holmes has gone through no less than fourteen roommates in the last year, and is in need of another. When he places a wanted ad for his next roommate, Joan jumps at the chance, miring herself in the curious and calamitous world of Sherlock Holmes. [College AU]
1. Chapter 1

_The apartment is big enough for us. No Freshman need apply._

* * *

You had to understand, Joan Watson was desperate in more ways than one.

When she told Carrie that she had finally found someone to move in with, she had expected her friend to take the news well. After all, living on your own in New York City was more than difficult — it was a rite of passage to try and find yourself into a college apartment or dorm away from Mom and Dad. And if that had been the long and short of it, she was sure Carrie _would_ have been excited for her finding someplace to live on her own for her second year of college.

Instead, the interrogation had began as soon as she'd mentioned the one (arguably small) caveat to her new place of residence — Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"_Joanie_," Carrie said, leaning across the small table, "_Look_, I'm not saying that this is a bad idea, but what if this Sherlock Holmes guy is some kind of serial killer?" she raised a brow over her iced mocha before bringing the straw to her lips. She sucked in thought, bright pink lipstick rubbing off onto the straw.

Joan shook her head. "No, come on. He's not some kind of psychopath or something. He gave me a complete list of his previous fourteen roommates and their contact information," she said, pulling the shrink wrap off of her new science textbook. Certainly Carrie had every right to be concerned, but for as _weird_ as it was for her to have gotten a complete list of all fourteen people and their contact information, it had proved that Sherlock wasn't a murderer. Maybe an annoying roommate, but certainly not hiding any dead bodies in the closet.

"And," she said crumpling the shrink wrap, "All of them were alive. Not exactly all forthcoming with the details, but you know, not dead or anything."

With a sigh, Carrie crossed her legs and propped her elbow on the table. "You're telling me that out of the entire borough of Manhattan, you found the one guy who's driven no less than fourteen people nuts to live with and you're calling it a success because none of his previous roommates are dead?"

"Carrie," Joan sighed, rolling her eyes.

"—No Joanie, you've got to find someone else. I mean why him, why this guy?" she help up a hand, as if to ward off Joan's protestations. "I don't have anything wrong with you rooming with a guy if you think you need to, you're a big girl, but we have _got_ to talk about your standards for roommates," she said, before leaning in even further to whisper, "I mean what's the real draw here? Full washer and dryer? Walk in closet? _Doorman?"_

"You're ridiculous," Joan replied, cracking open her anatomy and physiology textbook with a satisfying peel of the pages. Carrie paused, watching her flip through her book for a few moments before she leaned back with a huff. She crossed her arms, striped cardigan riding up her forearms as she watched Joan.

A few moments passed as Joan flicked through her textbook before she sighed again and looked up.

"Alright — he said in the email there was a walk in closet _and_ a washer and dryer. I'll have my _own_ room. I'll never even have to _talk_ to this guy if I don't want to," she explained. Being a woman of science and calculations, Joan had seen the roommate wanted ad, weighed the consequences, and spent an afternoon looking up his previous roommates. By the end of an evening of terse phone calls with ex-roommates and a few emails she'd come to one conclusion about moving in with Sherlock Holmes — one that upon later reflection was a horrible misestimation of the situation at hand.

"I'm desperate," Joan said, picking up her own coffee for a sip, "—And besides, what's the worst that could happen? He's only undeclared, not some kind of criminal."

It couldn't be _that_ bad, Joan Watson told herself.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan's first tour of her future apartment came less than twenty minutes after her lunch with Mary. The fact that she had eaten beforehand had probably not been among the wisest of ideas, but Joan had no idea what she was in for when the apartment door to #221 swung open.

There was a list of horrors Joan _was_ expecting, after all, a college undergrad only had so many reasons why they would run through over a dozen roommates. She had guessed the apartment would be messy, perhaps even quirky, but she hadn't expected to be met with a wiry young man of about her age in what appeared to be protective gear for soldering something.

Joan blinked, taking a step back. "I'm sorry, did I come at a bad…time?" she asked, tripping over the last word.

Sherlock Holmes pulled back his face mask, revealing an long face, deep set eyes, and expressive features. He pursed his lips, and then fiddled frantically with the mask in his hands, before he leaned forwards. "Ah, no. I should think not. Just an experiment," he explained, thrusting out a hand. "You must be Joan Watson. I'm Sherlock."

Stepping over the threshold of the apartment, she took his hand and shook it. When she let go of his hand, Sherlock immediately went to wipe away sweat from his brow.

"Yes, we had a meeting scheduled for this afternoon…" Joan filled in, raising a brow as she glanced around the breezeway. There were many things she had been expecting, but what she could see from the door didn't fall under any of her expectations. Sherlock stepped back, broadening her view, and Joan raised a brow in shock.

The wallpaper of the hallway was a light patterned brown, and the lamps that lit it looked old enough to have once been gas, but were rewired to be compatible with electricity. Stacks of books lined the hall, and a small figurine of a painted dog guarded the tallest stack. A haphazard poster had been pinned down the hall, and when Joan's eyes landed upon it, Sherlock followed her gaze. He blinked in surprise, taken aback by the poster which detailed various alcoholic drinks and their compositions.

"Previous roommate. Loud chap, not really suitable for my research methods. Left a few of his things around…" Sherlock explained, confusion sinking into his features before he shook his head, and then rocked forwards on his feet. "Shall we then? There's a living space, and then I can show you your private bedroom."

"Sure," Joan nodded, hitching her bag's straps further up her shoulders. "Lead the way."

Spinning on his heel, Sherlock began to walk forwards, winding his way past the hall. Joan sidestepped a stack of fallen papers, and then followed, watching her footfalls.

"There's not much, I'm afraid, but it should do nicely for any pre-medical student such as yourself. The sitting room we have has a television, which I'm afraid due to my latest tinkering only seems to pick up Spanish television cable, a large couch, small kitchen, and several bookshelves," he said, gesturing into the room. Joan leaned past him, and walked through the entryway, taken aback by the unnatural size. Space was at a premium in the City, and here Sherlock Holmes was, sitting on quite a fair bit of it. She could see how so many previous roommates wouldn't complain about the location for the price.

"It's…lovely. A bit messy, though."

At this, Sherlock twitched. "A messy house and a clean mind. I'm sure we'll get along splendidly so long as you don't attempt to reorganize the shelves."

Leaning forwards, Joan examined the titles. "Is there a method of organization I should be aware of?"

"Absolutely _not_," Sherlock said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth on the final 't'. "General spatial proximity from one book to another keeps them easy enough to find which means that keeping them organized is what keeps them accessible."

Joan gave a slow nod. "Right…do you think you can show me the room?"

Pulling away from his shelves, Sherlock nodded and dropped his protective mask onto the couch before he led her further down the hall to the two doors facing each other. One door had a blank wood surface, and the other was affixed with a small gold plate 'B'.

"That," Sherlock said pointing to the 'B' plate, "Is my room. And this," he said gesturing to the blank door. "Will be yours, Miss Watson."

Pushing open the door, she peered inside the empty room. "The A room?" she asked calmly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I rather think it should be whatever you want to label it. Welcome to 221, Joan."

* * *

Question: Should they be Columbia or NYU students?


End file.
